Imagine standing in a field just after a storm. The air smells new, and everything around you feels warm — the world is breathing.
You see a rainbow,
bending in the sky,
Unreachable to touch or hold
yet you are happy,
And don’t know why;
It’s the same way you feel when you see a butterfly or hear a song
your heart races away
to understand the world without needing to explain it.
But to make life as art significantly longer--
To assimilate ourselves
to the world and to others
to be humble, compassionate, forgiving and understanding.
We live. We have our ups and downs. We hope or wait for something. Finally, We die,
and are born again but
We remember nothing.
And everything begins from scratch.
May everything come true.
May, they believe.
And may they laugh at their passions, But above all
Let them believe in themselves.
Let them be helpless children
For weakness is a great thing Because what has hardened will never win.
In a vast, barren landscape
the sky keeps its oranges and
purples, until nearly
understanding isolation
in eyes heavy with unspoken
thoughts preparing to reveal.
Rake a plow across the dry soil with bare fingers, dirt caking
as in a mirror--
this act of cultivating the soul—
each dig is slow and deliberate,
conveying struggle and toil,
earth is tough, reluctant to yield.
The sea is glazing over, reflecting a flicker of distant light, perhaps fire or stars, to symbolize a revelation, the small hints of something greater beyond them,
cut rapidly into being human.
Show me a field of dormant plants in the ploughed earth,
imaged we are soon tangled
roots beneath the deep unseen realms.
My muffled sound
a heartbeat over the quiet rustle of wind or soil—barely perceptible,
—drawing a parallel between
the rhythm slow. methodical.
Nearly confronting the cliff's edge in a fog-covered expanse,
There’s no clear direction,
Where paths are invisible
the inevitable finality of death.
Torn into peices
Life moves away
my follicles follow,
Laying finger to unbutton
in shades blouse silhouette
The water well spat into
sloped cottage flows down
forgotten things to prepare
naught enough time to think
To hope in soul's certainty.
grasp intuitively, and had a stroke, all the laws of this world, its beauty and ugliness, it's compassion and cruelty, its Infinity and its limitations. In this sense, art comes much closer to being a spiritual experience And its creation is to enact a Faith.